The Sellswords
by Sam in the Dark
Summary: Faced with a rutheless and barbaric warlord, Redwall's last hope may just be a gang of amoral mercenaries.


**I says to myself, "Sam," says I, "write a story from all your favorite fandoms." I do what I says.**

**I do not own Redwall.**

_Goodness, time has flown! It seems not yesterday when I was given the duty of Recorder, young, impatient…now, I seem to have disregarded the seasons that have passed. _

_We live in harmony, as we always have, behind the walls of our home, and I have had the privilege to never need to record acts of violence or of terrible vermin invaders. I suppose that in the great history of Redwall, my writings will never be of anything adventurous or terrible, and for that, I am very grateful._

_We approach, of course, the beginning of a great occasion, the celebration of a new Abbess. Abbot Rolland's retirement represents a rarity in the traditions of our home, but we do not begrudge him his decision, and he has earned his rest. After much deliberation, the Abbot selected Hermia to take his office. Bless her soul, she is so exited. In this recorder's humble opinion, all thoughts of her inexperience are completely unjustified. It takes nothing more than heart to be an Abbess, and Hermia has more heart then anybeast I know._

_It is with grief, however, that I must also record that many of our friends will not be here for this wonderful event. The otters have left for the season, and the Guossim have duties to the south on a mission of war, the details of which I am not aware. Still, these are good times. Not for the longest time has the Sword of Martin needed to be drawn. We…are at peace, a peace that I deeply hope will last for a long time._

_-From the Recording of Brother Alfonz._

* * *

It could never be said that Rolland had aged particularly well. He had always been a mouse with a taste for the finer things, and his physic made this incredibly clear. The rotund mouse's career as Abbot had been marked by whimsy, festivity, and an almost shocking disregard for the most ancient of Redwall traditions. He was known to do things like giving addresses in his bedclothes, while completely drunk, yet still speaking to the hearts of all who listened. More than that, though, he had made changes, forsaking outdated concepts for new, exiting ideas. This bothered some in the Abbey, and endeared him to others. And as he stepped down today, he learned that he would be recorded as "Rolland the Reformer."

"A ridiculous title!" he loudly proclaimed. "Reformer….I sound like some boyish young rebel fighting an evil tyrant! But, if you all insist…" Everybeast at the celebration laughed, and Rolland continued.

"It has been my honor to serve as your Abbot for these seasons…though perhaps not all your honor to have my serves!" Laughter again, as the mouse grinned at a whip-thin, aged squirrel who grumbled to himself annoyed. It was no secret that Brother Gage did not approve of the way Rolland composed himself.

"Ah, but the seasons have flown by, and though I care for you all, I grow tired from my long time as Abbot. So, since I have changed so many other traditions, I have decided to become the first Abbot of Redwall to ever retire! But fear not, gentlebeasts, I will not leave you without a guiding hand…" Rolland puffed up his considerable gut.

"I give you…Abbess Hermia!"

From the table stood a young mousemaid, beautiful and innocent, her hands sweating. A cheer echoed down the table as the young Abbess began to speak.

"Friends and Goodbeasts," She began. "I know that we will all miss our Abbot greatly, and I shall try to fill his shadow." She was interrupted by a roaring, table wide bellow of laughter.

"I pray that my time as Abbess shall be a time of peace and prosperity!" The table cheered, and the feast continued. Yet throughout the celebration, no one noticed the frown on the new Abbess's face.

* * *

"What was I thinking!?"

"Hermia, calm down."

"'Fill his shadow?' By the Sword, why did I say that?!"

"You did fine."

"They probably thought I was such a little fool, how could I-"

"HERMIA!" The young Abbess stopped venting and regarded her friend. The mouse had spotted fur and dark brown eyes, and wore an Abbey robe that he seemed to be constantly adjusting.

"Look." He said. "Rolland is a bit funny, but he knows what he's doing. He wouldn't have picked you if he didn't think you could handle this!"

"Darren, how is anyone going to take me seriously?! You know everyone thinks Rolland just picked an Abbess my age because he loves changing things! I can't lead the whole Abbey!" Hermia panicked, and Darren just smiled.

"Dear sister, have you noticed how he ran this place? Drinking and partying all the time…you are far more organized than him, you can handle this."

"But…but what if we get attacked?"

"Please don't dangle things like that in my face."

"Darren, I'm serious!"

"I know." It was a commonly discussed issue between the two. Darren had been raised on the legend of Martin, and from a very young age desired to be named Warrior. He commonly practiced swordplay, and thought he was rather good. There was, however, little hope of this. Redwall was a peaceful place, and had not been threatened during his lifetime. As such, there was no need for a warrior. So Darren stayed to his fantasies, not letting them interrupt the world that he really lived in.

"Hermia." Darren said. "You don't have to worry about that. A Vermin army is not just going to drop out of the sky!"

* * *

Voelund had come.

The hoard was heralded by the pillar of smoke that rose from the camp that it waited at. Birds, wise to the danger, avoided it, leaving the area silent, save for the voices of the hoardbeasts. Over five hundred strong, they were, and no ordinary mob of vermin. The North, after all, bread strength. They were un-uniformed; they forsook marching and loped through the forest like wolves. Each was battle scarred and hungry for war.

Voelund had come.

HE had united the tribes. HE had beaten every other warlord down, inch by bloody inch. HE held the greatest power in the north, and as a reward, fate had given him prophesy. It was his destiny to shake the world.

Voelund had come.

His soul was ruled by omens and portents. His mind was consumed by glory and conquest. The world was his for the taking. It had, after all, been foretold.

"Send for Sycorax." The mighty lord snarled. One of his attendants nodded and left, returning shortly with an aged pine martin, snow white of fur, her hair tied in ragged braids, and her hands clutched around an evil looking book.

"You have called for me, Lord of All Under The Sky?" The hag asked.

"You have served me well to this point, witch, and for that, you have my trust. You have aided me, helped me to victory against all of my foes. And now…." He grinned. "and now the great powers tell you of a far greater victory."

"Indeed they do, mighty king." Sycorax crooned. "Mighty Vuliprax, master of Hellsgate, has chosen you for the end of an era. You shall walk to the walls, the walls stained red with the blood of many warlords, and there you shall conquer." She threw her hands to the sky. "The time of Voelund has come, when the King from the North shall hold the Sky's Sword, and with it shatter the world, leaving only what is his!"

"You speak of Redwall, the conqueror's bane, do you not?" Voelund asked. His claw gripped his spear with anticipation.

"Yes, mighty one." The witch continued. "if you can but take that sword, the world will be yours. The Conquerors Bane will be the throne from which you will take the world!" Voelund smiled at this.

"My strength, my army, and your magic…what could stop us?" At that Sycorax suddenly gasped, her eyes rolling back into her head. She began screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Do not show disrespect toward your King!" One guard shouted, advancing toward her. As he did, a spear shot through his chest, Voelund cruelty twisting it.

"NEVER interrupt a divining!" he snarled.

"Beware!" Sycorax screamed. "Beware the Lying Rogue! He has the power to break prophesy! Beware!" She fell to the ground.

Voelund stared at the fallen witch, lowering a paw to her face. "She lives." He mumbled, and turned to the remaining guard. "Take her back to her cart, undamaged." The terrified hoard beast did so, without hesitation.

The King of the North sat back on his throne. Lying Rogue? He was not afraid. Sycorax had predicted foes for him before, and all he had slain. His witch had warned him that one would surface, and he was prepared.

The walls would fall. Voelund had come. And his war would soon begin.

**Ok, so I recognize that there is a legitimate chance that I have screwed this up. I beg your opinions, I do love them so!**


End file.
